Mock Epic: The Siege Of The Slighted Ego Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Heart, thin-skinned citadel of man,
Of Pride, high-walled yet fragile in its core,
How mighty souls were shaken to the root
By darts so small they scarcely drew a breath.
The hero strode through day with lifted chin,
His name a banner flying in his mind.
He'd polished thoughts like armor, bright and sure,
And walked convinced the world took careful notes.
Then came the blow—no thunder, just a shrug:
"Oh… that's fine, " someone said, and turned away.
O gods! The air grew heavy with disgrace.
The word replayed like drums of coming war.
"What did they mean? " Pride asked, enraged, alert.
"Did tone betray contempt? Was silence scorn? "
Thus one small phrase, unarmed, unmeant, unwise,
Became a spear that pierced heroic calm.
The mind convened its council through the night.
Old glances rose as witnesses recalled;
A laugh remembered now rang false and cruel;
A pause from weeks ago grew thick with threat.
Insults were forged from scraps of passing hours,
And meaning bloomed where none was ever sown.
At dawn, the hero armed himself with frost.
Replies were sharpened, speeches fully planned.
He marched to work resolved to prove his worth,
To conquer foes who knew not they had struck.
But lo! The offender smiled, unaware,
And asked, "You alright? "—casual and kind.
The fortress fell. Pride fled, exposed and small.
The battle ended where it had begun.
So learn this truth, O Reader wise in wounds:
The deepest scars are often self-inflicted.